


Omegaverse 1

by orphan_account



Series: Merlin Random Writing/Drabble Series [18]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Coming of Age, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, M/M, Multi, Omega Arthur, Omega Verse, Pining, Power Dynamics, Self-Acceptance, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 10:05:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3806404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is his coming of age. One reveals one’s inner self in one’s twenty-first winter; the body prepares itself to reflect that which lives inside for others to see, developing either into a Beta, Alpha or Omega. Tomorrow, Arthur will be twenty-one years; his body will be ripe, and his inner being will be bared, exposed, for all the world to see. Arthur fears tomorrow. He doesn’t fear many things, but he fears tomorrow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Omegaverse 1

**Author's Note:**

> insomnia part 2. was half happy i found this and half dreaded it. no idea WHY i ever wrote this, except for the part that screamed for an omega!arthur fic. first part, so far not continued, but once i have a laptop again i might finish this up. i'm oddly fond of omega!arthur?

Uther’s hand is as strong as iron on Arthur’s shoulder.

“You will sleep well tonight, my son,” he says, eyes resting unerringly on Arthur’s face. Arthur meets the steel grey of his gaze, body steadfast while his mind is not. He knows better than to let it show. “Your body will ripen over night. It will sap your strength, so don’t be fooled by your body’s reaction. You will feel weak, first, but in the daylight you will strengthen. Come morning, you won’t need this anymore.”

Unshy of hand, his father cups Arthur’s crotch, large fingers resting over the tight leather held together by a small, barely noticeable lock. Arthur doesn’t feel Uther’s fingers, only the impact of his palm as he slaps him lightly.

The grin on Uther’s face is wide. “You will stand as a true Alpha, next in line to me. You will show everyone the Pendragon blood that flows in your veins. Especially your little…” A shadow crosses Uther’s face, gone quickly. Arthur sees it. "... _magic_ pet,” he says, the words delicate and still stranger to his mouth, even after twenty-one years of knowing.

“Yes, sire.”

“Especially your magic pet,” Uther repeats, grin turning sharp. “Remember that she will pledge her magic to you, and no one, nothing else. I won’t have… magic… subdue Pendragon rule. It belongs neither to her, nor fate. The magic is _yours_.” 

Arthur knows the words as intimately as he knows how to breathe. “Yes, sire,” he says and has to fight to not let his eyes close against his father’s.

“You are of Pendragon,” Uther says gravely. “And tomorrow you shall make me proud.”

When the door closes behind his father’s heavy steps, the guards shut Arthur inside with three deadbolts and two locks whose keys are hidden away in his father’s chambers. Arthur stands stiffly, stares at the dark wood of the door and answers his father inside his mind.

_I fear I shan’t._

He barely finishes the thought, and his body tenses. “Fool,” he curses himself. He can’t stand the twist in his thoughts lately, how with every passing day the insecurity kept carefully at bay smears his footprints in the sand until they are unrecognisable. Unrecognisable like his own self in the morrow: tonight is the last night of Prince Arthur of Camelot. Tomorrow the heralded Once and Future King will meet his Destined, the other side of his coin, the half which makes him whole.

Arthur’s mouth becomes a flat line. He turns away from the door, walks to the large windows right of his bed. He stares unseeingly out at the poles holding the marquee of Pendragon colours in the bailey, set up to honor his coming of age. Arthur watches its outlines gleam red in the light of the surrounding torches, and his hands curl into fists at his sides.

He wants tomorrow to be over. Just thinking about how the Great Hall will be filled to bursting with masses of people waiting to finally see the Destined who shall rule at their future King’s side makes Arthur’s stomach turn sour. He closes his eyes against the view before him and leans forward to rest his forehead against the glass. In about twenty-four hours, Arthur is meant to have seen the face of the one destined for him.

 _But you know you won’t_ , a traitorous voice whispers.

The thoughts return vengefully, taking up every space inside Arthur’s mind. He recalls the precise words of the prophecy that have been branded into him since birth:

_‘On his twenty-first winter shall rise_  
the spirit of the Once and Future King;  
his Destined then shall shed the disguise,  
and together they shall bring  
Albion back into her magic spring.’ 

Words older than the world itself, Arthur was told. At his birth, the priestess of the Old Religion had announced the coming of the Once and Future King, who, back then, had been nothing more than the ghost of fairytales and lullabies passed on from wet nurses to children, a legend long forgotten surviving generations in whispers. The Once and Future King, who shall restore to the land what his father’s reign had stolen: magic. Magic, an essence vital to the land, an essence the land necessitated more than water. 

Arthur likes to think it’s deception; he cannot possibly be this legendary King. He is a prince, true, but becoming a king like any other king and becoming a heralded, legendary king… Those are two different matters entirely.

And yet, since Arthur could think, there was no way to ever escape the title of Once and Future. The moment of his birth was a precarious situation; the tales have it that the death of his mother, of Uther’s beloved Ygraine, had thrown Uther into a madness called The Purge, the attempted genocide of magical people. It was a short but horrible period of time for Camelot, one that is today kept quiet and only briefly alluded to in history. Nonetheless it was real, and the entire kingdom had held its breath when the priestess of the Old Religion, the oldest and most powerful instance of magical authority, had announced that very same magic-slayer’s son to bring about the rebirth of magic as the Once and Future King.

Arthur always has heard it and hears it today still, how, in hushed whispers, the common folk tells tales about what prompted his father’s abrupt change of heart. The wickedest tell of how magic users killed Uther in secrecy and took on his form to rule so they could ensure Arthur would grow in safety, would grow into the good and honourable man that would become the Once and Future King. The most touching tales tell of how Uther locked Arthur away because he couldn’t bear to look upon him simply for the fact that Arthur was his mother’s image, and how, then, one day, he dared to look upon his son’s face for the first time, and love broke madness and ended the Purge.

However it happened--his father has always answered Arthur’s questions about the matter with silence and the occasional slap--Arthur knows that something about his birth caused the Purge to stop. People all over the land, especially magic people, most likely motivated through the priestess’ words, hailed him as their Once and Future King, the saviour of magic, ever since. So no matter what Arthur thinks, no matter what he wants, his future has been decided for him through fate and his people: he is to be the Once and Future King. Arthur never felt like he was special, never felt good enough to just be a _normal_ king at all, but years of fighting it in vain have brought him to the iron resolve to give his people the best, to be the best he can possibly be. He knows of his shortcomings, knows of them well enough, but he will lay his life down readily for his people, even if it means he has to bond with the one they call his Destined--the other side of Arthur’s coin, the half that makes him whole...

The outrage over the commonly accepted assumption--postulated as _knowledge_ , really--that Arthur is not a whole person without his Destined, that he is somehow lacking or incomplete, is nothing more than a scar, long-familiar and healed. These days, though, it is more the cause for ill humour than for actual dismay. 

Arthur, lacking and incomplete? By the Gods, yes, he _is_. And tomorrow, everyone will see.

Something has grown inside Arthur’s body. It has become larger and larger with each passing day, and lately Arthur’s weeks have been filled with a sense of heaviness pressing down on his chest, forbidding him to breathe properly. There is an urgency in his limbs that will not be calmed, a blankness in his mind that will not be filled. His body and mind know what his heart won’t accept: that tomorrow, everything will change.

It is his coming of age. One reveals one’s inner self in one’s twenty-first winter; the body prepares itself to reflect that which lives inside for others to see, developing either into a Beta, Alpha or Omega. Tomorrow, Arthur will be twenty-one years; his body will be ripe, and his inner being will be bared, exposed, for all the world to see.

Arthur fears tomorrow. He doesn’t fear many things, but he fears tomorrow.

The Pendragons are said to be descendants from the very last dragons: bold men with jaws as strong and unbreakable as a dragon’s, with lungs of fire. A family as uncontrollable as the sea, possessing a will as unbending as rock. Strong and proud, they are of the few descendants that were true Alphas still, and Arthur’s father, his father’s father, and all those that sat on the throne before him were true Alphas. Pendragon blood is strong enough to make no exceptions of women; when Morgana came of age two years ago, Arthur had to clench his jaw against the sheer force of her Alpha scent, mostly sweet with a delicate bitter twist at the end that tickled one’s roof of the mouth.

And tomorrow his father’s people expect the next true Alpha in line, Arthur Prince of Camelot. Nobody spares a thought for the idea that Arthur could be anything else--Arthur, who is tall and stout of build, with strong shoulders, a broad chest and large hands. He is headstrong (or as stubborn as a bull, as Morgana is fond of saying) and the children worship him as Prince Brave. Arthur has the bearing of a true Alpha, and since he is to be the Once and Future King—leader not only of Camelot, but the whole of _Albion_ —what else could he be? By the Gods, what else could he be than a true Alpha?

“I wonder that myself,” Arthur mutters aloud in answer and grits his teeth. He opens his eyes and holds his own gaze in the window’s glass that shows his reflection dimly. His eyes are dark with forbidden thoughts, and the thing that keeps growing inside his chest curls traitorously. Arthur has kept many secrets in his life—such as Merlin’s magic, the dream of being a simple farmer, and most of his fears that went untold—but that one secret, the one he fears so much to be true, will be unmasked tomorrow, and there is nowhere Arthur can hide, not from his own shame, and worst of all not from the disappointment in his father’s eyes.

His stomach clenches, turns bitter in anxious worry and bitterness. He huffs out a breath, eyes closing again. How can anyone expect him to be the Once and Future King—how can anyone accept him as their sovereign, if he won’t be—won’t be what he should be?

And, even more so, if he can’t do what he should do?

Destined. _Emrys._

He should wed his Destined, should look at her (him?), how his father was said to have looked at his mother. His Destined, this Emrys, who is his to be the sole focus of his life. The blood inside his veins. His courage, his pride.

Yet… how can it be? How can it be, when his heart so clearly—when it already belongs so utterly to no other than—

“Shut up,” he tells himself harshly and pounds a fist against the cold stone of the wall. “Shut up, you prat.”

His heart is racing, racing against his body and mind. How can Arthur’s people expect him to be the Once and Future King if he will not be able to give his heart to his Destined because it belongs to someone else already? How will Arthur be able to rule if he cannot uphold his part of the prophecy? And he can’t even keep his heart out of it, the priestess had clearly spoken of the half of his whole, the other side of his coin…

“Fuck,” Arthur hisses. “Shut up. Shut up.” 

_You clotpole_ , he silently tells himself, breath coming faster. _You turniphead. Supercilious, pompous idiot,_ he continues, the words coming to him naturally. _Shut up. Cabbagehead. Royal arse._ Slowly but steadily the voice turns to Merlin’s, and the words resound in his mind with Merlin’s familiar cheeky lilt. Against all common sense, the wild beat of his heart begins to calm. It takes a few agonising moments in which Arthur wars with himself, but eventually the hard line of his mouth softens into something indulgent, something terrifyingly tender.

“Stupid Merlin,” he mutters lowly. “Never here when you should be.” 

The warmth blossoming inside his chest settles easily over the other thing that will deceive him tomorrow, and Arthur is helpless to it, has always been helpless to it since he first realised. His eyes blink against the burn of tears, and he stares out into the darkness of night.

He will never be able to look at Emrys the way his father was said to have looked at his mother.

Not when it already is the way he looks at Merlin.

“Stupid Merlin,” Arthur murmurs. His fingers uncurl from the fist they have formed, and he lays his hand flat on the wall, as if to support himself, keep himself steady at the recurring thought of Merlin’s absence.

Maybe it is best if Merlin is not there, tomorrow. He won’t witness Arthur’s disgrace.

Most of all, like this, Arthur can fulfil the duty he is bound to, because the _other_ secret—that dear, wonderful thing—will never stumble over his lips.

There has never been even the ghost of a chance. Fate has other plans for him but simple happiness.

\--

Morning comes, and it comes quickly. Arthur is woken roughly from nightmares of being trapped within a sea of people that claw at him, their faces hidden behind monster masks; something is holding onto his throat tightly, and he jerks awake from the pain.

“W-what,” he croaks, registering two different things: one, his body is _burning_. Burning as though struck by fever. His skin is red and wet with it, and the sheets cling in a disgusting way to his naked, hot back, sticky like honey. He is dizzy from the power of it, and for a moment all he can do is blink, overwhelmed, against the sweat falling in his eyes. He is hard in his breeches, and the leather belt around his waist is pressing down against his erection painfully.

The second thing he realises is that his father is kneeling on his bed, bending over him with his hand clasped around his throat—wearing a murderous expression.

“What is the meaning of this,” he snarls more than asks, and the rage in his voice is absolute. 

Dimly, Arthur thinks, _this is the madness they talk about._

Arthur tries to articulate a thought or two, but neither does he have any thoughts, nor does Uther let him. Uther’s face is red, eyes narrowed into slits. He tightens his fingers on Arthur’s throat, effectively choking up Arthur’s words. “By God, Arthur, what is the meaning of this!”

Even as a shout of pain leaves Arthur’s mouth, he is taken over by the blind urgency of his newly awakened body. He breathes in harshly through his nose while his stomach twists and tightens to the point of agony. His skin is pulled so taut that Arthur wants to scratch it off. His mind is screaming for relief, a relief he needs now or he will scratch his fingers bloody at the walls from the unanswered want within that’s consuming him—from the way his length is constricted in that tight, dark space, from the way he is so _empty_ and aching. Arthur’s pained shout becomes a pained groan, long and low and needy. His body seeks something that it does not have as it begins writhing on the bed despite Uther’s hold on him.

“Uther, you are hurting him,” comes a voice from far away. It’s a familiar voice, and through the rush of blood in his ears Arthur realises it’s Gaius speaking. “His body reacts to yours. The closer you come, the madder you drive him. You need to step back.”

His father’s face twists even more into fury, and as he exhales, Arthur smells his breath. His nostrils flare from the Alpha scent Uther exudes, and now that he has realised it’s there, he smells it everywhere. Arthur’s body pulses in need, once, his skin crawling with it, and even as Arthur’s hands reach out by themselves to touch Uther’s arms to alleviate the madness felt within, Arthur’s head is yelling at him. _No! Not him!_

“He shouldn’t _be_ reacting to me,” Uther growls. “Why is he reacting to me? Tell me, Gaius, why is he—why is he?”

Arthur’s heart is seized by an unspeakable tension and misses a beat. He squeezes his eyes shut, can’t bear to see his father’s face change in realisation—can’t bear to see Uther’s stunned disgust—even though it should be obvious by far. Apparently, though, Uther will only believe it until he has heard it spoken.

“Because Arthur is an Omega,” Gaius says calmly. The words reach Arthur with an air of finality. _Fuck_. Arthur has known what he would be, has felt it inside. It doesn’t stop the shame from blooming thickly. Then Gaius says, quieter, “And there is nothing wrong with that.”

The genuinely non-judgemental tone of Gaius’ voice is soothing, dulling the shame to a level so that it becomes bearable. A tear falls from Arthur’s cheek, and only as he tastes it on his lip does he realise it’s one of gratitude.

He forcefully banishes thoughts of his father from his mind and focuses instead on trying to still his body. The first thing he thinks of is Merlin, and he has no time to curse his own foolish heart because then he is picturing his friend already. He sees his face explicitly, the sooty sweep of his lashes on his cheeks, the hint of the sky that his eyes hold underneath, and the insolent curve of his mouth that is so lovely, so lovely.

Thoughts of Merlin only make his heart clench, though, and after a moment the pressure on Arthur’s throat eases until it wholly leaves; Arthur keens at the loss of contact, his body wanting, needing it back, but he has enough strength of will to fist the bedsheet underneath to keep his hands from reaching for Uther.

With the loss of Uther’s grip comes the freedom to breathe, and so Arthur does. It’s both a blessing and a curse: while his lungs fill with long-denied oxygen, he smells Alpha scents everywhere—scents of every variety, some sweet, some pungent, some delicate, some strong. They force Arthur’s body into their unwanted embrace until his hands are trembling with it, and he is doing his damnedest to keep them where they are.

God. Fuck. It’s _hell_.

“Step back,” Gaius commands, harsh and imperious. There is the sound of footsteps. The scents are still everywhere around Arthur, but the strongest—Uther’s—becomes less and less. Arthur has never been more grateful for anything in his life, because the idea of his skin wanting his father’s pushes bile up his throat.

“Open your mouth.” Gaius’ voice returns, and then there is skin on Arthur’s, but it’s okay. It’s only Gaius. Gaius tips something against his mouth, and a cool liquid fills Arthur’s mouth. “Swallow.” 

Arthur does and almost gags on it. It’s sickeningly sweet, and even though it’s cool it grows hot as coal as it reaches his belly. He groans, his stomach twisting hard once, twice, each time the stab of a knife. He throws his head back and his arm over his head. He grits his teeth as his body convulses a last time, and at the fourth stab of a knife to his belly it’s over.

The rush of blood in Arthur’s head abates. His body slowly but steadily begins cooling down until the sweat on Arthur’s arm feels freezing when he breathes shallowly against it. The tempest of sheer want finds rest, becomes a calm buzzing just between muscle and skin that Arthur feels can be borne.

When all grows quiet, inside and out, Arthur allows his eyes to open. Allows himself to simply feel.

Omega, not Alpha.

\--

His father’s face is ice, but his eyes are thunder. When he leaves, it is with congratulations that Arthur has successfully ruined his coming of age. He promises that the matter is not yet closed and decrees that Arthur should remain shut away in his room until they have found a solution.

Gaius remains at his side.

Arthur’s body has calmed significantly thanks to Gaius’ potion, and his erection has flagged, leaving his groin sore and hurting. He remains lying in the mess of his sheets and stares up at the canopy of his four-poster, nothing but a long stretch of blankness in his mind.

“There is no solution,” he says blandly at length. He turns his head to regard Gaius through his sweaty fringe, eyes heavy and tired from exhaustion. “Is there, Gaius.”

Gaius appears as calm as usual, as though nothing were amiss. As though he had not just witnessed Camelot’s future King’s utter disgrace. There has never been anyone but a Pendragon on Camelot’s throne, and no King before has ever been anything but a true Alpha.

Except for Arthur, of course.

 _Arthur, the Once and Future Omega King_ , Arthur thinks sarcastically.

Gaius looks at him. “Indeed, sire. There is no solution--because there does not need to be one,” he adds emphatically.

“Right,” Arthur says stiffly.

“It is what it is, sire. And there is nothing wrong with that.”

Hearing those words now with a clear head is too much for Arthur. Acceptance due to lack of option is nothing new to Arthur, but still he is troubled and scared of what shall be in the future. His lips twist into a mean, lopsided smile, and he pins Gaius into place with his eyes. “Nothing wrong with a brood mare as a King, instead of a warrior that will lead armies to war in times of need?” he hisses and can’t sit still a moment longer. He makes to sit up, ignoring Gaius’ concerned “Sire, you should not,” and curses under his breath when his arms tremble from the effort to stem himself upright. He folds his legs underneath him and grits his teeth when the tight leather device around his waist presses harshly against the tender flesh of his groin. The movement makes him realise that there is a wetness between his buttocks, slick and cool now. He is mortified at once, his face growing red with it, and drives his fist into the bed.

“You dare tell me there is nothing wrong with a _brood mare_ as King,” he spits out, “who will grow fat with children and idle with domesticity on his throne and who will _forsake_ his people in every single way because he is not fit to rule?”

“Sire, I did not mean—”

“This is precisely what you meant,” Arthur snarls, cutting him off. He averts his face and stares at the wall to his right. His breathing is hard, and his heart beats so heavily it feels fragmented. “Don’t you dare lie to me.”

A silence stretches out, long and poignant. Arthur tries to keep his emotions under control. Just because he is what he is now does not mean he will abandon what he was taught through twenty-one arduous years, does not mean he will leave behind who he is.

Eventually, Gaius speaks. “If I had wanted for someone to speak so scornfully about you, Arthur, I would not have sent your father away,” he says sternly.

Even though he is now twenty-one winters old, Arthur still wants to flinch with how Gaius uses his first name and not his title as he should. He keeps his face averted and his back to Gaius as a new wave of shame floods his body, this time the shame for speaking so out of turn. His words concern not only himself but all Omegas. _Brood mare_. Gaius is as he is. He has no child, has worked through his entire life, and has never been anything but kind and supportive to Arthur.

Gaius gives a long-suffering sigh. “Not every Omega’s life results in bearing and raising children, Arthur. You know that as well as I do.” And Arthur does, for true it is. He thinks of Grethel the Great, who conquered Rheged of the Distance. Ferdand the Fifth, head knight of Mercia who single-handedly is said to have slewn a giant. Perton Penlion, Jehanne of France. All Omegas who did glorious military deeds for their people. _Who_ , Arthur thinks reluctantly to himself, _have neither grown fat with children, nor idle in domesticity._ “Your body responds to your Destined, Arthur. Who Emrys is also defines you, and who you are defines Emrys.”

Arthur feels a pang of anger, and he barely keeps himself from snarling again. His bloody _Destined_. He has no desire _whatsoever_ to meet this Emrys and be bonded to him or her for a lifetime. The very thought makes him want to punch a hole through the wall.

Gaius continues, oblivious to Arthur’s inner turmoil. “However, it also responds to you inner self, Arthur. To hopes you have cherished.”

That makes Arthur laugh humourlessly. “So it is due to secret desires that I am this?” _I bet my sword on that damned farmer dream_ , he thinks, grimacing.

“Not merely hidden desires.” Gaius seems to sense Arthur’s temporary calm. The bed dips as he sits down beside Arthur. He touches his hand to Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur’s body goes rigid. “I remember a prince of eighteen who defied his father’s orders and went to save a village outside of his own realm despite the threat of war, simply because he knew of a friend’s need.”

 _Ealdor_. How brash he had been, then. Because he had been a fool for love, and a naive youth with a clear, unclouded vision of fairness. Because of Merlin. Because of justice.

It’s only three, years ago. He would do it all over again.

“I remember the prince succeeding but falling into the ruling Queen’s trap. I remember the prince needing to send one of his men into a battle unto death against the Queen’s champion to evade war. I remember the prince stepping forward to fight in his knight’s stead…”

Arthur closes his eyes. 

“...but not killing the Queen’s champion, because it was not war he sought, but _peace_ ,” Gaius finishes soberly. His hand on Arthur’s back feels less and less like an intrusion with every further word. Arthur allows the tension in his back to flee, allows his shoulders to loosen. “Had you been an Alpha like your father, Arthur, then you probably would have chosen war and would have killed the man. But you did not.”

Arthur hunches in on himself, supports his elbows on his knees and hides his face in his hands. That, too—choosing peace—is something he would have done again. Will do again, he knows, should it come to that.

“You have listened too long to your father’s words about those he wrongly thinks weak,” Gaius says quietly. “Seeking peace and listening to others’ advice, those are strengths, and they are ones that you possess. Do not throw them away. Use them. Camelot will be richer for it.”

Arthur makes a noise in the back of his throat. He knows, logically, that Gaius’ words make sense—he himself began, long ago, defying his father’s rule over things he thought his father did wrong—but he is still his father’s son, still Uther Pendragon’s son who is an Alpha, who thinks only Alphas are rulers. Everything else is an impossibility.

Gaius knows him too well. “Alphas are not all warriors, Arthur, and Omegas are not all… brood mares,” he says wryly, patting Arthur on the back. “Circumstances shape us into who we are, as do the people around us. Nothing is ever set in stone.” 

Gaius stands up. Arthur remains in his crouched position, eyes closed, listening to rustling and the clinking of glass. He lowers one hand and looks over his shoulder at Gaius, who has taken out a number of filled vials and put them on Arthur’s desk. 

“These are herbal potions, designed to temporarily quench your body’s need,” Gaius explains, pulling his bag closed and back over his shoulder. “They are different from the one I gave you earlier.”

Arthur takes a deep breath and rises from the bed, taking slow steps into Gaius’ direction. His body feels weak still, the want a distant but constant thrum on his skin, in his muscles. Arthur wants to spar with his knights to ruthlessly eradicate even the remotest feeling of it. He supports himself with a hand flat on the desk, glances at the vials. “Why are they different?”

“They will not weaken you like the other one. The other one was for Alphas; very strong for lessening a body’s need but not affecting the mind. As you know, unlike Alphas, Omegas are affected in mind too. These are herbs specifically for Omega need, so that you will remain clear in mind.”

“You already prepared those.” There is a pause, and Arthur lets it stretch. At last he looks Gaius directly in the eyes. “You knew this would happen,” he says, not accusing but merely observing.

“I thought it might, yes,” Gaius agrees. His eyes find Arthur, and they share a look. “You knew it would happen, too.”

“...I _feared_ it woul,” Arthur corrects him. “I was right.”

“Our instincts seldom lead us astray,” Gaius says shrewdly. He inclines his head. “I recommend to stay inside today. Your father will have to cancel the ceremony and invite Alphas from the other lords’ and ladies’ households instead.” Arthur scowls immediately at the idea, but he is resigned. He knew this would come. Emrys is as inevitable as the crown. “Drink a potion every five hours. I will talk to the King. He should allow you outside tomorrow, if he is rational enough,” Gaius comments dryly. “Your strong Omega scent will abate by then, if you keep taking the potions.”

Arthur nods at him, giving him leave. He has the sudden impulse to feel his sword in his hand, and he quickly gets it from the side of his bed and goes to stand in front of the large mirror on the other side of the room. He focuses on the blade, the weight of iron heavy in his hand. The cool gleam of the sunlight falling in through the windows, reflected on the blade, is soothing. It feels right, holding the sword in his hand, and Arthur never wants it to be anywhere else. It’s an extension of his body. _And that it will remain._

“Am I not this, Gaius?” he says loudly, trails his hand cautiously over the sword’s edge. He watches his own reflection and takes in his warrior’s frame. “A warrior, to defend what I love,” he says, full of fierce pride.

“You are, Arthur,” Gaius says without hesitation as Arthur’s eyes find him over the mirror. “Show them that.”

“I will,” Arthur says, knowing he will want to gut every knight who will dare to look at him like prey, now that their prince is an Omega. “I will.”

Arthur sees Gaius smile at him, that proud smile that has always humbled Arthur. “Sire,” he says, giving a bow and turning to leave.

When Gaius has knocked on the door to be let out (Uther keeps Arthur guarded like an expensive treasure), Arthur clears his throat. “Gaius,” he says lightly. “What news of my wayward manservant?”

Gaius stops just as the guards open the door. Arthur can see they are watching him curiously, heads turned in a highly inconspicuous manner. _Want to see the Omega prince begging for a fuck._ Arthur’s lip quirks. “Has Merlin killed himself yet?” he asks and nonchalantly lets the sword twirl smoothly in quick circles at the wrist. He can imagine and hear Merlin’s muttered ‘show-off’ clearly.

“Not that I heard of.” Gaius’ eyebrows are raised in disapproval, but he’s smiling indulgently. “He sends his regards.”

“Tell him he can keep those, and when he’s back, he can make an effort to actually fold my tunics instead of just throwing them around like he does.”

Gaius’ smile vanishes. “Ah. About that…”

Arthur stills the sword in his hand deftly. He sees, satisfied, how the guards have turned back to their own business. “What is it?”

“He has… extended his stay. For two days. Or three,” Gaius says, seeming unsure about that himself. “He begs for pardon.”  
Arthur snorts. Merlin begging for _pardon_. Gaius knows as well as he does that Merlin never has and never will beg for Arthur’s pardon. Still, Arthur feels wrong-footed. “He should have begged me for permission,” he says crossly. “Should you send him a bird, tell him he can beg for my leniency instead."

Gaius nods in understanding. He hesitates first but then says, “There is reason to his actions, sire,” looking hopeful.

Merlin can have all the reason he wants. He should have been back tomorrow, the latest, and that is all Arthur cares for right now. “I’m sure he has,” Arthur says dismissively in answer and turns from the door to hide the tension in the flat line of his mouth.

\--

That night, he washes the sweat and scent roughly from his body. When one of the Beta maids comes to unlock the chastity belt around his waist for the bath, he is harsher than he needs to be; she behaves around him as if he’s made of glass. She is obviously not Merlin, who usually is keeper of the key and goes about the matter like he goes about everything else—clumsy, meticulous and slow, with no respect whatsoever—and that thought incenses him even more. After cleaning the leather, he snarls at the maid and locks the thing up again on his own.

He knows it’s stupid and childish, but he can’t help training with his sword every time the doors to his chamber open and close. The first glances that Albion has of her Omega Prince will be ones guided by Arthur. The tongues of the castle wag all too vigorously, especially these days, and every word passed on about him Arthur makes sure will be connected to his sword somehow.

The sword in his hand also makes it easier to accept the fact that now, with twenty-one, as long as he has not been mated, his body reacts to the others’ scents. The Beta and Omega scents are barely noticeable at times, slightly pleasant at others, from the little contact Arthur keeps. The Alpha scents, however, are stronger, creep into Arthur’s nostrils to cling there and irritate his skin in the worst way possible. When it happens, Arthur automatically thinks of Emrys, the Alpha destined for him, and he grips his sword too tightly in his hand until the pain in his palms is the only thought that remains.

Evening comes and goes. Arthur undresses fully and watches himself in the mirror again. He sees nothing of the change outside, yet it feels as though his skin has been renewed—as though a tailor has cut the edges and pieces that simply don’t fit anymore, now that Arthur is who he was meant to become.

 _It is what it is_ , Arthur hears the echo of Gaius’ voice. _And there is nothing wrong with that._

He breathes out a shallow sigh, remembering his father’s face, the strength of fury in his hand around Arthur’s throat, the disappointment in his parting words. Wildly, Arthur wonders for tense seconds if he will have Morgana on the throne now that his son has revealed himself to be unsuitable. A traitor, probably, to Uther’s eyes.

Arthur’s hand ball themselves into fists at his side, and he keeps staring at his own body, expecting his muscles to diminish, his body to shrink. Expecting to see signs of weakness.

What he sees is this: how the shadows fall on his body the way he knows; how the light from the torches on the walls frames his hips and shoulders in a soft orange the way it always does; how his own face is the very same. The only signs of ripeness are the healthy flush to his cheeks and chest, but other than that, there is no outward change to him to signal that he needs to be taken like his body apparently desires.

The knots in his stomach begin to disperse the longer he looks.

“It is what it is,” he murmurs to himself. Unbidden, he sees Merlin in his mind’s eye: sees his blue gaze full of the devotion Arthur has never understood. If Merlin were here now, Arthur is sure he would say something ridiculous like, ‘Omega or Alpha, you’re still a prat.’

The thought makes Arthur smile, for the first time today.

\--

The first night as Omega is not as bad as tales have it. Arthur knows stories of Omegas that are driven mad and incoherent without a suitable Alpha around to take them in the first twenty-four hours, but those are stories from times when no one yet knew about herbal medicine. Arthur survives the first day well enough on Gaius’ potions, though he does feel cooped up. He wants to be out in the woods, ride Hengroen and have the wind whip away the traces of his Omega scent. Gaius' potions have dimmed the scent, but Arthur can feel it cling to the secret places of his body—the pits under his arms, the small of his back, his groin. He is beyond glad to be spared the wetness leaking from his hole and the hardness of an erection that would only have become the familiar restricted ache Arthur has known all his life, thanks to the chastity device.

Arthur spends the night without blankets, his sword nearby. He is naked except for the belt around his waist and still he sweats outrageously and dreams of hands all over his body. He sees his knights and other kingdoms’ offspring, all Alpha, trying to entice him to bond with them. They tower over him, and Arthur hears his people jeering, laughing about their Omega Prince who revealed himself to be bred like a bitch in heat. He sees himself sitting by his father’s side, dismissing one suitor after another when a cloaked figure enters and whispers of _Emrys_ go through the Great Hall. He sees himself looking for Merlin in panic, ignoring his Destined. Merlin is on the other side of the room, giving him a sad smile. When Arthur watches Emrys come closer, paralysed, his eyes flit back to Merlin, but he is no longer there.

He rises early with the day. The first thing he does is call for another bath and a change of sheets, because his need and fear have left sweaty sheets behind. A quick glance out of the window shows the marquee is still set up in honour to his coming of age; Uther must have made an official announcement about the matter, giving his apologies to all the lords bringing their Omega offspring in vain. Arthur watches the lords and ladies leave in hordes, the gait of their horses as proud as the banners borne by their knights on foot flapping in the wind. He can’t bring himself to feel bad about it; he didn’t want any of them here, anyway.

He staunchly tries to ignore the knowledge of how it’s just a matter of time until the next suitors arrive at court, and with it his unavoidable meeting with Emrys.

It doesn’t quite work. The skittish maid scuttling into his room to clean away this morning’s untouched food watches him curiously when he suddenly shoves the table against a wall. He feels better than yesterday already, clear of head as Gaius promised and, most importantly, strong of body. Yesterday he could not have pushed the table by himself, but now, with all his strength back, it’s an effort but manageable. With the table out of the way, his room offers enough space so Arthur can go through a part of his knight training. He ignores the maid, throws the windows wide open, and devotes himself to training.

It’s long past noon, and he’s in the middle of throwing his eleventh imaginary enemy to the ground when the door opens.

Arthur halts instantly, half crouching on bent knees with his arm pulled back mid-thrust. He grips his sword tighter reflexively, and his eyes dart up from underneath his sweaty fringe to look upon his father.

“Arthur,” Uther greets him gravely when the door closes. He is clad in his official robes, and from the crown on his head Arthur knows he has either held council in the Great Hall or within his private council chamber.

Whatever it is, it’s serious. His face is stoic.

Arthur stares up at him for another moment. He licks the sweat trailing down from his lip. It tastes salty on his tongue. He rises slowly, acutely aware of his partial nudity. He makes no move to cover his bare chest with a tunic, even as his father’s eyes obviously disapprove.

Madness seems to arrive with one’s coming of age, because Arthur does not put his sword aside. “Father,” he says, forcedly calm. He bows before Uther, holding the sword to his chest. The greeting of knights; an Omega greeting an Alpha on equal ground. As he stares down at the floor, Arthur expects to be struck in the face.

It seems he is mistaken. When he straightens after a while, Uther only nods once, stiff.

“Please sit, father,” Arthur says. He realises belatedly that there is nowhere to sit with the table, thus the chair too, on the other end of the room. His cheeks flush. He mutters, “My apologies,” leaves his sword on his bed and swiftly pushes the largest chair, made of heavy oak, back into the centre of the room. “Please sit,” he repeats awkwardly, gesturing to the chair.

Uther is regarding him with an indecipherable expression on his face. He makes to sit down, but just as he passes Arthur, he stills abruptly. When he turns to Arthur, his eyes are angry, and his nostrils are flared. “Wash that _stench_ off you!” he barks.

Arthur wants to shrink back instinctively, aware of his heightened body heat through hours of exercise. He knows that exercise strengthens his Omega scent so that it’s more than noticeable, despite Gaius’ potions. Arthur’s chest is gleaming with sweat, and Uther must smell his scent, thick like the heat radiating from Arthur’s body.

“There is no stench,” Arthur says before he can really think about it, and the vehemence of his words is highlighted by how the resentment in his body erupts, easily quelling the shame Uther’s words evoke. He raises his head and juts his chin out, wishing for his sword even though he knows he doesn’t need one. This is a challenge from man to man, and he intends to win it. He holds his father’s eyes, and says, calm but forceful, “There is only me.”

 _And you must accept that_ goes unspoken.

Arthur sees his father’s internal fight in the eyes only because he has learnt to look for signs of Uther’s emotions after having been subjected to façades his entire life. At last, his father’s face relaxes by fractions. He takes a step back and lets his intense eyes deliberately rake over Arthur’s body, head to toe. As he walks in a circle around Arthur, the atmosphere shifts to an Alpha evaluating an Omega. Arthur withstands the urge to growl in defense. He knows it’s one of Uther’s tests, to see if Arthur is fit to rule under great emotional duress. Arthur forces himself to show not a sign of weakness.

“You owe it,” Uther says then, from behind Arthur. His voice sends shivers over Arthur’s spine; it holds surprise. He walks to the front again and stands before Arthur with an assessing gleam in his eyes, rubbing his knuckles against his chin. “You owe it,” he repeats, and the astonishment is obvious on his face. Arthur finds it hard not to sigh his bone-deep relief when the challenging look in his father’s eyes changes to grudging acceptance.

“I do,” Arthur says brusquely, “because I am no different from before.”

Uther gives no other indication of his thoughts than a mild, “Are you now.” 

Arthur holds his father's eyes for a few breathless moments.

“I suppose you are right,” Uther says at last, and Arthur hears in it the permission to breathe freely again. Uther sinks down into the offered chair and wants to support his elbows on a table that is no longer there. His eyebrows wander up his forehead, and he gives Arthur a searching look.

“I wanted space,” Arthur says awkwardly, this time evading his father’s gaze.

“I see.” Uther looks at the table at the far end of the room, then back to Arthur, and sighs. He waves his hand to Arthur’s bed. “Sit.”

Arthur sits. The hilt of his sword prods against his thigh, but he doesn't move. His father is looking everywhere but at him, silent, and only speaks after he has surveyed the room in full three times. “I might have… overreacted yesterday,” he says without actually apologising. Arthur knows that the matter is closed for his father, and thus Arthur himself, with those five words. “Though, I must admit, Arthur, that was quite a surprise.” He finally looks at Arthur. “And it is one I had not expected in the least.”

“I had not expected it either.” Silently Arthur adds, _in the beginning_. Not that Uther needs to know that.

“Well. I have spoken to the lords and ladies of the other royal houses. They were incensed but had no other option than to accept that they would have to leave prematurely. Morgana and I bid them farewell this morning.” 

“That was… nice. Of the lady Morgana,” Arthur makes himself say, even though all he think of is how that was supposed to be him. Meeting their guests—royal and not; Arthur’s Destined could very well be a peasant—and entertaining them was largely his task this time, it being the ceremony of his coming of age. 

“It was indeed,” his father agrees. “You know how she is popular among the other houses. And she is wonderful with guests.”

“Yes.” _Morgana and I_. Uther has always favoured Morgana over him. He probably wants to crown her as his heir, if he has not already done so. Arthur’s face remains stoic even as his stomach becomes sour. Once and Future King indeed.

“I have also sent out birds and riders to Bayard’s, Loth’s, Steffan’s and all the other courts,” Uther continues. “Asked them to send their Alpha offspring here. As soon as is possible. It must be…” Uther’s face shows no sliver of uneasiness, but he clears his throat. “... uncomfortable for you. Without, ah... having…” 

_Been taken yet_ , Arthur knows he wants to say and cannot help his own grimace. It’s what his body desires, and the throb of want lingering on his skin and pulsing periodically only confirms this; however, that doesn’t mean the rational part of him agrees with it. By the Gods, he does _not_. He… has experienced, of course, in those rare, rare moments that he was relieved of the chastity belt and was alone. He isn’t entirely averse to the idea of… being taken… but just the mere thought of--of some _stranger_ man above him, or a woman with her finger inside him…

His hole clenches around nothing, feeling terribly empty, even as he clenches his legs against it. He shudders at the paradoxical reactions of both his body and mind. “I’m fine,” he says hastily, wants the matter out of the way. How he is going to go through this is something he will tackle when the moment has come. 

It is certainly not something he wants to discuss with Uther.

Uther, too, has never looked more grateful for anything in his life. “I am sure you are.” He looks at Arthur for another moment, then sighs. He reaches up to take the crown off and places it into his lap. He lets his head rest against the back of the chair and closes his eyes. Uther only takes off his crown and allows his eyes to close when he is with those he is comfortable around. Arthur’s chest tightens. His father is… comfortable. Around _him_. After yesterday. Arthur had thought…

“So what shall happen now?” Arthur can’t help but ask. He cannot bear going another second with the vagueness of the future and his own guilt weighing this heavily in his chest. “With Camelot?”

Uther’s eyes open, and he regards Arthur with a frown. “Nothing is going to happen to Camelot,” he says slowly.

“But,” Arthur says, and that’s as far as he comes. _I’m an Omega. You won’t let me rule once your reign is over._ His heart speeds up, racing. _Will you give your throne to Morgana?_

He can’t say any of it.

Uther’s eyes search his face, and Arthur curses himself for having the same weakness like him: his father can read his every thought in his eyes. “From tomorrow on, we shall look for your Alpha, so that we can find your… Emrys.” Uther pauses. 

Arthur’s heart is a throbbing mess, somewhere high in his throat.

“And this night there shall be the feast to honour your coming of age, in which...” Calm grey meets stormy blue. They hold. “...in which we shall make you crown prince of Camelot, as is your due,” Uther finishes with a small, sincere smile.

The relief bursts in Arthur’s chest like a swollen wineskin pinched with a needle. His eyes burn, and he clenches his jaw against it. “Right,” he says, hoarse, his intertwined fingers hurting from how hard he is keeping them pressed together. “Right. I thought…”

“You thought?”

Arthur closes his eyes. “I thought you saw me unfit to rule, now that I am what I am,” he admits, averting his face.

Uther doesn’t answer. Silence fills the space between them, and Arthur hears his own inhalations too loudly, too harshly. Only his strict sense of self-control keeps him from jerking together in surprise when Uther moves after what feels like hours. He walks to Arthur’s bed. His palm curves around Arthur’s skull as he presses Arthur to him so Arthur’s forehead rests against his thigh.

A wave of heat surges up in Arthur’s belly. His father’s Alpha scent is too close, too intrusive, and he almost pulls away.

“You are my son,” Uther says, and the words and the movement of his fingers carding gently through Arthur’s hair strip the situation of any sexual connotation. Slowly, Arthur’s skin rests again, goosebumps disappearing. “And I would not want any other.”

“But I am unlike you,” Arthur says in a rush. He closes his eyes against the wetness finally welling up. “You are an Alpha, and I… I…”

“You are Arthur. You are the same you have always been.” Uther’s fingers tighten in his hair, let go. He crouches before Arthur, then, supports his weight with his arm over Arthur’s knee. “Look at me,” he says, and Arthur does, bravely, with red eyes.

“You are my son,” Uther repeats quietly, and Arthur stares at his father’s soft eyes. He has never seen so much emotion in that familiar face before until now. “I know I have always been harsh with you, especially yesterday, but I thought it best if you grew to be a hard man. Kingship is a grave business, and it is a lonely one. I was scared. I did not want you to… ” _Make the same mistakes I did. Die from a broken heart like I almost did because you love as fiercely as I do._ Arthur hears it all in his father’s silence. “...be without defence. You were such an emotional child, Arthur, with a heart too noble and big for this world. I hoped to cool it with distance and punishments, but… to no avail.” His father’s smile is small. “I thought it the worst of fates that any future King should have your mother’s heart, because I thought you did. But then I saw… you have your own heart, Arthur, and that is even worse, because, yes, it is a soft one, however much you wrap it in armour. But I _know_ you,” he says, suddenly fierce. “I _know_ you, and that is why I would give my throne to no other.”

Arthur is at a loss for words and can only stare into his father’s wet eyes. He nods at last, dumbly, and Uther’s lips twitch in acknowledgement. Moments pass in which they don’t meet one another’s eyes—the situation too awkward and unfamiliar for both of them—and then Uther suddenly laughs.

“You greeted me with your _sword_ ,” he says with a grin, half-proud, half-wry. “Omega or not, that was a statement, Arthur. I would have had any lesser man flogged.”

Arthur clears his throat. “I know,” he says. He manages to answer his father’s grin with a small smile of his own.

\--

Arthur is wearing his hauberk, and the red cape brushes the stones of the ground when he stands still. Guinevere, Morgana's Beta-maid, has her hands on the belt, fastening and tightening it. When she makes to put Arthur’s sword into its sheath, Arthur says, “Leave it," more harshly than intended, and does it himself.

He strides purposefully out of his chamber, quelling the guilt over his rough tone and Guinevere's bewildered look.

Arthur isn’t nervous. He doesn’t get nervous.

It’s just that the damn _cape_ doesn’t sit right on his body, and he really, really wants to unfasten and pull it off only to pull it on again himself. He had Sir Gaheris’ squire called in to help him into his clothes, but Arthur had little patience for the boy’s nervous fumbling. Then, he thought perhaps a familiar face that wouldn’t be intimidated by the Prince would be able to do the job, so he called in Guinevere. Being the smith’s daughter, she knows her way around hauberks and swords. And indeed, she dressed him quickly and efficiently enough, but… something was wrong. Arthur can’t tell if it’s because the cape is pulled too tightly or too loosely, but his clothes feel wrong on his body.

Arthur scowls. The problem, of course, is that none of the hands dressing him were Merlin’s.

The thought makes him angry in a resigned way. He has felt the way he does about the clot for too long to be shocked by his thoughts. Bloody Merlin.

Merlin, who still isn’t here.

He should have been back yesterday, when, by all means, Arthur should have had his coming of age feast, had things not gone awry. He still isn’t here one day after, which means he will miss the crowning for real. Even worse is that by tomorrow Arthur will have to walk through masses of Alphas on his own without Merlin’s mocking comments right in his ear helping him keep his composure.

Arthur will so pay his insolent manservant back for his prolonged absence. _An absence I haven’t granted_ , he thinks sourly. Yes, obviously Merlin is permitted to take leave whenever Hunith has need of him, but he could have informed Arthur, at the very least, if he didn’t...

His thoughts don’t stay long with Merlin, however, because then the guards open the large doors of the Great Hall for him on his father’s call. Arthur swallows and tries to stand straighter than he already does. After a second, he steps inside.

The hall is decked in Pendragon colours: banners with the dragon on their front hang in rows from the ceiling, alternating in red and gold. Tables have been pushed together to form a long surface stretched from one end of the hall to the other, bedecked in blood red tablecloths and a rich banquet. Arthur can’t spare a thought for the delicious smell of the food, because this is his first time since his coming of age that he’s in a crowd of people; the different scents _assault_ his senses. The Omega and Beta scents are weaker and less intrusive, but there are enough Alphas around to raise the hair at the back of Arthur’s neck—not in pleasure.

Arthur’s fingers twitch, wanting to grip his sword, but he refrains from it. _Here we go_ , he thinks to himself grimly and forces his hands to stay at his sides in fake calmness. He takes his first steps into the hall.

There is a great number of people standing to the left and right of the hall, and with Arthur’s entrance, they all fall quiet. Arthur is painfully conscious of how each pair of eyes is trained on him, taking in every inch of his body, his posture, his gait—looking for changes in his person. Arthur takes a brief, deep breath, and strides forward in calm, long steps, holding his head high.

He deliberately allows his eyes to meet those of people from the town he knows, and he smiles at them in passing. It’s something he always does on official events, when the castle is open to welcome highborns and peasants alike. _Never be without face but let your people know who protects them._ The familiar thought makes him feel stronger, and the following steps are easier to take than before. When he approaches his father, he turns to the left and bows to his knights without looking at them, holding his sword to his chest. He rises again, his stomach contracting painfully in the second it takes for his gaze to finally meet those of his men. His eyes dart back and forth over the knights’ faces, most of them Alphas, some Betas, Lancelot the only Omega. With an unspeakable relief, Arthur sees none of the disgust or disrespect in any of their faces like he’d expected. He meets Leon’s eyes head-on, then, and his Alpha head-knight steps forward and kneels right before him.

“My prince, I am at your service.” He unsheathes his sword and holds it high. “To the future king!” he shouts, thrusting his sword in the air.

The knights do alike. When they have their swords raised, however, it’s not only their voices that echo in the Great Hall. “To the future king!” is the enthusiastic roar that has Arthur whirl around to watch, in fascination, every person in the hall participating. It takes him a moment to gather his wits again, the tension in his stomach loosening with relief. He swallows once and sheaths his sword.

Then, Uther rises in his seat.

“Arthur,” he says earnestly and begs Arthur closer with a sweep of his hand. Arthur goes, glancing at Morgana sitting by his father’s side. Her face is unreadable, but she is watching him intently.

“Kneel before your King,” Uther demands, and Arthur does. All he sees is the stony ground and a sliver of his coat’s red fabric pooling at his feet. “People of Camelot. Today we have gathered here to celebrate the coming-of-age of Prince Arthur son of Uther, King of Camelot, and to make him heir to the crown. He is noble-hearted and of a just mind; he has fearlessly and bravely led our knights to war and proven himself the ablest warrior of all.” His father’s voice becomes grave. “At his birth, they have proclaimed him the Once and Future King… the fated King from ancient legends, said to unite all of Albion… I never believed in the existence of such a High King, but now that I look upon my son—I know there can be no other but him.” 

Arthur’s breath falters.

“He shall do the position of your sovereign more justice than I ever could,” Uther says. The moment is unreal. Arthur looks up to chance a glance at his father’s face. He finds them bright with pride as they lock on Arthur. “I henceforth declare Prince Arthur as the sole heir of the crown, and with it, Camelot.”

When Arthur rises next, he is Crown Prince of Camelot.

He turns to bow at the waist before his people with the coronet on his head, awash in a wonder so great it steals his breath. Everything is hazy, as though this were a dream. Gratitude and pride and honour are tempests coursing through his veins as he stares out at the cheering crowd—

—tempests that subside to dim, fleeting things, when the one face he has longed most to see is not there.

\--

_Arthur met Merlin when he was eight._

_He was walking over the market square munching on an apple he’d stolen from the kitchens, glaring at the other children passing him by. His feet took him to the farmer’s, and he leaned against one of the rickety fences there so he could lazily poke at the hens with his wooden sword. Gaius wouldn’t condone his behaviour, but Gaius wasn’t here. Anyway, the hens were his._

_(Sort of. They were his father’s, really--so, by extension, they were his.)_

_The nervous cackling he got made him grin, the hens going crazy with their feathers all ruffled up. Delighted, he leaned over the fence for better reach, prodding one of the fatter creatures with the blunt end of his sword. It squawked and ran off, and Arthur leaned back, laughing loudly._

_“Stop doing that!”_

_Arthur spun around at the voice and found a boy standing a couple feet away, staring at him with a pinched expression on his face. Instinctively, Arthur sized him up: the boy might have been a little older with the (at most!) two inches he had on Arthur, but he was no threat. He was skinny and pale, clothed in what Arthur would have sworn were rags._

_Arthur had never seen him before._

_“Do I know you?” he asked loftily, narrowing his eyes._

_“I’m Merlin,” the boy said after a moment. “And you’re clearly a prat,” he added, unperturbed, glaring at Arthur’s sword. “They didn’t do anything, leave them in peace! Go pick on other things your size.”_

_Arthur’s eyes widened. He could barely believe it; Merlin was demanding he stop. No one spoke to Arthur that way. No one save his father. The boy clearly wasn’t his father, so…_

_"You can’t speak to me that way,” he said in sheer disbelief. For some odd reason, his belly was tingling along with the words._

_“Of course I can,” the boy--Merlin--retorted. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re the mean one here.”_

_“I can do whatever I want,” And he could; he was the Prince. He was scowling now and took a step forward. “You can’t.”_

_“Of course I can,” Merlin repeated. He wrinkled his nose and looked at Arthur as though Arthur was slow. He seemed to be thoroughly unimpressed with the sword Arthur was raising. It made Arthur want to grin. This boy was so stupid. “Who do you think you are, telling me what to do? You’re not my mom.”_

_That was when it clicked._

_“You have no idea who I am,” Arthur said, feeling as though someone had just upended a bucket of cold water over his head. He shook himself against the sensation and pushed the words out of his mouth even as his belly filled with dread. “I’m Arthur,” he said, steeling himself against what would inevitably follow._

_Usually, when the other children heard that…_

_Merlin just looked at him, open-mouthed. It made him look like a fish. “Oookay,” he said at length like he had no idea why Arthur had told him his name. He just kept standing there, and when it was obvious that he would make no move to either bow, kneel, or at least apologise, Arthur did nothing but stare back at him._

_By the Gods, how could anyone be this stupid?_

_“I’m Arthur,” he said again. Then, automatically, “Prince Arthur.”_

_There. It’s out, Arthur thought, almost ruefully. Now the other boy would--_

_Merlin shrugged. “Good for you, I guess,” was all he said. It sounded just as insolent as everything he’d said before. Arthur gaped, and apparently Merlin really was as slow as Arthur thought he was, because he actually laughed. He raised his eyebrows in a manner eerily reminiscent of Gaius and said, “But you’re forgetting something.”_

_“What?” Arthur asked inanely, because--what?_

_“You silly.” Merlin’s mouth widened into a grin. “It’s not just Prince Arthur...”_

_The bewilderment made Arthur lower his sword. He was in a daze and could only stare as Merlin bent at the waist, to--to bow, to kneel, to apologise, surely._

_“It’s Prince Arthur the Prat,” Merlin said, blue eyes twinkling from underneath his fringe._

_And then Arthur got a handful of mud in the face._

_*_

_Before Merlin, Arthur had never had a childhood._

_Duty, since before Arthur could think, had always been his first companion. He was three when his father stopped kissing his forehead goodnight, and four when his maid Shali ceased coming to his chambers with bedtime stories. He had no friends; he was a prince. Mothers tugged their children away whenever Gaius took him to the market square, and Arthur knew it was because they were afraid of his father. He was too (only sometimes, though), but he had no one to tell. Gaius sometimes looked at him as though he knew, but Arthur never said a word._

_His loneliness made him sad, and that made him bitter and angry. He grew resentful of the other children and scowled at them whenever they peeked at him from behind their mother’s skirts._

_So he spent his mornings in between thick, dusty books with his spine bent before stern tutors, learning to read and speak Greek and Latin and Gaelic, and the history of his family and his land; strategies of warfare; the rules of the court and knighthood; astrology and mathematics. Afternoons found him clad in heavy mail, pushing his body to the limits as he learned how to position his feet the right way until he wasn’t knocked back anymore; how to parry and riposte and counter and strike until the muscles in his arms were on fire and swords became his fingers; how to crouch low in the woods to read smudged deer tracks in the muddy earth._

_He grew up with bards singing to him terrifying and glorious tales of how he would follow his father on the throne to become the Once and Future King; how he would lead the land like no one had before him, and how he would restore magic; how he would meet whom they called his Destined, the stranger the far-away stars had determined to be his companion, like his mother was his father’s._

_Arthur spent many nights crying himself to sleep for fear of the day he would be grown up. If he could not even make his father happy now, how was he meant to, literally meant to, do all the things the bards sung of? Still, the tears dried as the nights wore on, and with time he unlearned the meaning of fear and learned, instead, the meaning of duty. He surrendered willingly to his father, and he surrendered consciously to fate._

_There was no other option. If there was any fear left, Arthur never acknowledged it._

_And then, one day, he met Merlin._

_*  
Their first meeting didn’t end with Arthur’s face smeared with mud: it ended with them both rolling around in it and shouting at each other, Arthur’s heart beating wildly in exhilaration and wonder because he’d never done that before. It made him laugh out loud at last when he pushed Merlin to the ground, straddling him, keeping the other boy in his place with his hands only. His sword was lying, long-forgotten, somewhere on the ground. Everything was a blur of wild and fast and dirty, and it felt so stupid and brilliant that Arthur found himself wondering, for a split second, if that was how the other children felt all the time._

_Was this--normal?_

_Even when the guards came by to drag him off to his father to be lectured, there was only giddiness._

_“You are never to behave this disgracefully again,” his father told him that night. Arthur acquiesced, not yet knowing it was a lie._

_He punished Arthur by denying him dinner. Arthur slept well despite an empty stomach. Throughout his training the next days, he was restless even as he was running around and doing exercises. He was unusually flighty and actually got Dalgen’s sword to the shoulder when he snapped his face around to stare after a skinny serving boy with dark hair walking past the training yard._

_He couldn’t sit still the following day, either, and kept bouncing his right leg up and down under the table, glad his father couldn’t see. He wasn’t really hungry but ate a little anyway so that he wouldn’t draw his father’s attention to himself, or, worse, to his plan. His plan, so carefully crafted under the blanket last night, was sneaking out of his chamber before Gars and his boring strategy books could get there, and..._

_Well. That was the entire extent of his plan._

_He wondered about whether he shouldn’t be going to those strategy lessons after all, because he had no clue what he was doing when his feet took him back to the farmer’s without his volition. He should be in his room reading something in Greek, not out here in the early noon sun. He felt vaguely guilty about it--he’d never done that before--but he justified his own actions to himself by muttering, “Only getting my sword back.”_

_In the end, he actually did make a half-hearted attempt to look for his wooden sword. When he didn't find it after the third glance, he shrugged his shoulders. Honestly, he had dozen of those in his chambers and didn’t care much if one went amiss._

_He did care, however, when he saw Merlin hurrying past a neighbor's house, arms laden with clothes and what looked like dirty rags._

_Before he knew it, he was after the boy in a flash._

_*_

_Arthur didn’t mean for it to keep happening, except that he did._

_The third time it happened, he couldn’t help himself: he thought back to how he and Merlin pushed each other into the flat well just behind the castle, squabbling all the while, and how, wet hair plastered to his forehead, Merlin’s ears stuck from his face in the funniest way ever. It made him grin insanely while Geoffrey droned on about some symposium or other. It wasn’t his fault he stole away in the middle of the hour to find Merlin. It was just to teach him a lesson. Merlin still spoke to him as though he were just another peasant, and they couldn’t have that, could they? His father was always saying how people needed to respect him, and..._

_He and Merlin ended up in the stables, hay in their mouths and stinking like horses._

_The third and fourth and fifth time it happened, well--there weren’t really any excuses for those._

_Arthur told himself he was just really trying to establish his authority over what he soon learnt was a hopeless case. If Merlin didn’t learn to watch his mouth around those of a higher station, he would be in a world of trouble one day, and what if Arthur wasn’t around to protect him? Arthur had to protect his people, that’s what his father said. It’s what he wanted to do._

_So he started with Merlin._

_(Even at the age of eight, Arthur was splendid in the art of selective perception; the simple truth was that he was thrilled with how Merlin kept talking back, and glad that the feeling of being normal never once went away around Merlin.)_

_*_

_When Arthur was sent to his father the third time he misbehaved during one week, the guards had the order to drag Merlin along with him. Arthur bravely stood before Merlin and demanded they let him go even as his face was becoming paler by the second. Bran smiled regretfully at him and threw an arguing Merlin over his shoulder like he was a sack of wet clothes. Arthur could only follow their steps, feeling betrayed as he glared at the back of Bran’s head and guilty when Merlin glared back at him. Not that he showed it, of course. He scowled instead and snapped, “Your fault, not mine!”  
There wasn’t much to do but imagine Merlin’s head severed from his body as they waited in the audience hall for the King, Merlin shuffling from foot to foot all the while. It irritated Arthur to no end, so he hissed, “Gods, will you keep still!” which somehow led to them wrestling around on the ground, because of course Merlin wouldn’t keep still._

_When his father cleared his throat, Arthur jumped up and away from Merlin as if he’d burnt himself. “F-father,” he said too loudly and covertly tried to flatten the hair that Merlin had mussed up on purpose, the git. He was surprised to see no ire in his father’s face, not even in his eyes. He just seemed tired and subdued, weary, somehow, and that made Arthur feel even worse._

_“So this is him?” Uther asked at length, eyes fixed unerringly on Merlin. It made Arthur's chest tighten uncomfortably._

_Hurried, Arthur began to say, ¨This is,” knowing if Merlin were to speak, he’d bollocks this up royally._

_“I’m Merlin,” Merlin said, who--Arthur glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, naturally not panicked at all (princes didn't panic)--was still sitting on the ground with his arms crossed before his chest with messy hair and was… glaring. At the king._

_Arthur had the insane, absolutely mad urge to laugh, even as something in his stomach coiled tightly. His mouth twitched. He bit the inside of his lip hard._

_“Merlin,” Uther said, as if testing out the name. His eyebrows wandered up his forehead, but before he could say another word, Arthur blurted, “It was my fault!”_

_Uther’s eyes shot to him._

_“I--I dragged him to the stables and pushed him into the well and made him steal the sweets Cook never gives me because she doesn’t like me.” Arthur was babbling. He subtly wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers and tried not to shrink under his father’s gaze. “It’s, it’s all my fault, and he’s just really slow--”_

_“Oi!” Merlin cried, indignant._

_“He doesn’t know any better, father, really, I mean he’s just a stupid peasant--”_

_“And you’re just a stupid prat--”_

_“Shut up!” Arthur yelled, face reddening with anger and fear because Merlin had no idea what he was doing, how bad he was making this. “Shut up, will you just--”_

_“You shut up yourself! All you do is order me around, do that Merlin, go there Merlin--”_

_“Enough!” Uther boomed at last, his voice echoing in the hall, and Arthur immediately fell silent. Surprisingly enough, Merlin did, too. Arthur glanced at him from the corner of his eye and saw that he was still staring up at Uther, mouth agape, but at least he wasn’t glaring anymore. Uther looked from Merlin to Arthur and back to Merlin again, and then he sighed. He sank back into the throne and took off his crown. He closed his eyes._

_Arthur could barely believe Merlin was still quiet._

_“So you are Merlin,” Uther said, his eyes opening to pin Merlin in place._

_Arthur’s mouth already opened in defense, to deny, but Merlin was too quick._

_And too stupid._

_“Yes,” he said, “I’m Merlin.”_

_“Merlin.” Uther rubbed his chin, frowning. He kept studying Merlin like he was a particularly interesting kind of riddle, one he was trying to solve but couldn’t. He cocked his head to the side, and the longer he stared at Merlin, the more nervous Arthur became._

_(So, what--apparently princes did get nervous. Once, in their lifetimes. When faced with a dragon maybe. Except Merlin was worse than a dragon sometimes, so perhaps, okay, princes did get nervous twice...)_

_He darted a quick glance over to Merlin, who, Gods, was looking right back at his father without even bothering to stand up. It made Arthur’s heart speed up in worry for the other boy, but standing before his father as he was he didn’t say a single word._

_Not that he had to._

_The doors of the hall banged open suddenly without Uther’s command, and Arthur’s head snapped around, like his father’s and Merlin’s. Gaius was making an awful lot of racket as he came running towards them, out of breath, face white as a ghost's. He stopped just in the centre and was gesturing around wildly with his arms and hands without saying anything since his words kept being swallowed by his rapid gulping for air._

_“Gaius,” Uther said, surprised, and Arthur relaxed. It wasn’t the kind of you’ll-wither-in-the-dungeons voice his father usually reserved for interruptions. “Is something the matter?”_

_Gaius put his hand to his chest and slowly regulated his breathing the way he’d shown Arthur to do when Arthur was still very small and used to (foolishly) cry every night because of the prophecy. “No, no, Sire,” Gaius said, and even though his voice didn’t sound breathless anymore, there was something in there that made Arthur watch him longer. The older man almost sounded if he were afraid, and Arthur had never known Gaius to sound like that. It was disconcerting. “I just--heard that you had Arthur summoned, and--”_

_His gaze fell on Merlin, who was still sitting in a slouch on the floor, and he started as though he’d only just seen him then. “Merlin!” he exclaimed, and Arthur flinched from the horror in his voice even though he wasn’t the one being addressed. “So it is true what the guards told me, that it is you who keeps dragging Arthur away from his lessons--I cannot believe this, Merlin, I thought they were--because I told you to--but you never listen even once--and your mother, boy, if your mother knew about this!”_

_In morbid fascination, Arthur watched as Merlin, for the first time in their acquaintance, actually looked repentant. He was staring at the ground and biting his lip, uncertainty and regret written all over his pinched face. Even though Arthur never thought he’d see the day, it made him feel ill. It was the same kind of ill he got days before he coughed more than breathed, days before his nose just wouldn’t stop running and he’d feel hot even in winter. It was unpleasant, to say the least. He crossed his arms in front of his chest as if defending himself against it._

_“Oh, for the Gods’ sake, boy, get up, get up! This is the King before you!” Gaius roughly tugged Merlin up by the scruff of his neck, and Merlin, wincing, actually did his bidding. Arthur kept watching, and the ill feeling dissipated a bit. Yes, he would definitely never let Merlin live this down. Merlin could follow orders indeed. Oh, Arthur would make him do everything he wanted..._

_“Hah! Merlin!” They all fell silent--even Merlin in his quiet complaining--as Arthur’s father hammered his fist down onto the throne’s armrest. He looked at Merlin again, this time in recognition. “You are Merlin! Merlin, Gaius’ boy!”  
Arthur started at that. He’d known Gaius was an Omega, but he’d never known…_

_“Not, ah, not exactly my boy,” Gaius hurried to correct. “He is the boy of a dear friend of mine and my charge. My lord, this is Merlin”--and here he hesitated a long moment--“Hunith’s son.” He pressed Merlin down by the back of the neck and forced him to bow before Uther, which Merlin had no choice but to do. Arthur spluttered at the sight, Merlin bowing before someone, and had to avert his face and thump his chest to keep the laughter from bubbling out when his father shot him a displeased look._

_The King rubbed his fingers over his lips in contemplation. “What of the father?”_

_“I don’t know,” Gaius said, lowering his eyes. “I’m afraid I don’t know, sire.”_

_“So the boy is a bastard.”_

_Merlin’s head snapped up at that. He glared at Uther from underneath his fringe, much the way he always glared at Arthur when Arthur was holding him down while they were wrestling: no ounce of respect and incredibly fearless. Or just insane._

_It didn’t come as a surprise to Arthur that even in such a situation as this one, Merlin’s mouth would run away with him._

_“My father is a good man,” he said heatedly. Only when Gaius hissed something at him, did he add, a very belated and very reluctant, “Sire.”_

_“Yet you have no knowledge of him,” Uther returned, and Arthur watched Merlin’s mouth snap open. Merlin was no liar. When he said nothing, Arthur knew it was true. Merlin didn’t know his father._

_Uther watched him for more moments, moments in which Merlin finally averted his eyes, admitting defeat, however grudgingly. That seemed to satisfy Uther, and he stood and walked to Gaius._

_“He certainly is as stubborn as an old goat,” Uther commented as he stared down at the boy in question. Then his eyes found Gaius’. “But is he a good boy, too?”_

_“Yes,” was Gaius’ immediate, firm answer._

_Yes, was Arthur’s answer, silent, but no less immediate and firm._

_“Will you give me your word for that?”_

_Gaius stared at Uther a long, long time. “I will give you my life for that,” he finally answered._

_Uther turned to Arthur. He gestured towards Merlin and said, “So this is him, your boy?”_

_Arthur’s throat closed up. He had no idea where this was going. He thought about lying for a brief moment but only nodded stiffly. He held his father’s penetrating gaze and didn’t move a muscle._

_After what felt like an eternity, Uther gave him an almost imperceptible nod. "He shall be your manservant, then.” Suddenly, his voice turned sharp. "So this tomfoolery of the last weeks, Arthur--it stops here. This very instance.”_

_There wasn’t much to do except gather all his concentration to remain as rigid and unimpressed as a statue with his father’s eyes on him. The king seemed reluctantly satisfied with Arthur’s response, turning away. Arthur, face and body still, allowed only his eyes to move; from the corner of them he saw Merlin wearing the widest grin he’d ever seen on the boy’s face. Even though Gaius was no longer holding him down, he was still bowing as though he’d forgotten it, and it looked so weird, the way he was turning his head like an owl whilst bending at the waist to grin unabashedly at Arthur from a distance, even as the King frowned down at him._

_“You are dismissed,” Arthur heard his father say from far away, and that was when his heart was beginning to speed up in sheer joy. It felt like the hardest thing he’d ever done, composing himself under his father’s and Gaius’ watchful eyes: his heart was thudding away in his ears when he gestured for Merlin to follow him. Merlin stumbled towards him, the same dim-witted but wide grin still on his face, and Arthur felt compelled to demand, in what he considered his royal tone, “Tone it down, you idiot!”_

_Merlin, of course, didn’t tone it down._

_So it was Merlin’s his fault, really, when, the very second the doors closed behind them, Arthur shoved him in the shoulder and his lips formed the brightest, happiest grin he’d ever grinned._

_Life was good._


End file.
